


Each Coming Night

by thatfangirl



Category: Wicked - Maguire
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-29
Updated: 2005-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatfangirl/pseuds/thatfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lady Glinda had a bad night, a night of shakes and regret and pain; she guessed it was the early signs of gout from her rich diet.  But she sat up half the night and lit a candle in a window, for reasons she couldn't articulate."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Coming Night

**Author's Note:**

> _Wicked_ belongs to Gregory Maguire. No money is being made and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Written for the Apricot Challenge on wicked_fanfic. Thanks to gorynna for beta-ing.

The blackberry brandy had dulled the worst of the pain in her joints, but Glinda still lay awake. After exhausting the view of the canopy, she kicked off the duvet and pulled on her robe. She had left the half-empty decanter on the nightstand, so gently she replaced the stopper and returned it to its hiding place. The draft from the window made her tighten the sash of her robe before slipping from the room.

Chuffrey was in snoring oblivion when she passed the master bedroom. The marble staircase was cold against her bare feet and she cursed the slippers lying forgotten by her bed. She hurried through the foyer and into the dining room, then through doors she hadn't opened in years.

As soon as she and Chuffrey had returned from their honeymoon, she had rushed through every room in estate, surprising the servants and reveling in her title. The kitchen was as she remembered it, with a massive icebox and hideous black stove. Glinda opened the pantry: a bag of apricots hung from a nail in the door, and she remembered requesting a tart for later in the week.

She returned to the dining room and sat at the head of the table, pulling her cold feet onto the chair. She bit into the apricot found it not quite ripe, but food hadn't tasted right to her for weeks. With a flick of her wrist, it rolled lopsidedly down the long table, stopping against the centerpiece.

_the fruit's delicate oranges and reds vivid against her green skin_

Glinda clamped down on the memory, then slowly doled it out. Elphaba had been curled on her bed, an oversized manuscript propped against her knees. She had been eating the apricot without looking at it, keeping it clutched in her left hand while her right had turned the pages. Glinda had been evaluating the possibilities of Elphaba's long hair for ten minutes before Elphaba had noticed her gaze. "Hungry?" she had asked, holding out the apricot. Her voice had been free of suggestion, but Glinda allowed herself the indulgence of pitching it lower in recollection.

When Glinda had not immediately replied, Elphaba had lobbed the apricot at her. Glinda had fumbled the catch, smudging the essay on her desk. She had complained, Elphaba had raised her eyebrow in requisite pithy response, and everything had been fine until Glinda had sunk her teeth into the apricot, her lips brushing where Elphaba's must have brushed. The realization had transfixed Glinda, flushing her cheeks to match the fruit. Elphaba, already returned to her reading, had not noticed, but Glinda reconfigured the memory so that dark eyes had lingered while she returned her lips to the apricot, enjoying the counterfeit intimacy far more than the taste.

Glinda shivered in the empty dining room, and thought that a cup of tea might help. While she waited for the leaves to steep, she admitted that Elphaba's power to induce such schoolgirl fancies had not waned. During their most recent meeting, when they had rambled arm-in-arm through the gardens of Colwen Grounds before Elphaba had remembered those ridiculous shoes, Glinda had heard bluebirds overhead and briefly pretended that their song had been meant for her and Elphaba alone. It had been stupid, Glinda knew, but then so was she.

Glinda poured the tea into her mug and carefully unpacked all the memories that she knew meant nothing to the Witch: matching wits in moral philosophy until Elphaba had admitted that those dreadful essays were only poetry to her; riding in a crowded carriage and discovering that her head throbbed less after Elphaba had nodded off against her shoulder; enjoying too much Elphaba's propensity to sprawl across already narrow beds; lighting charmwax candles at Nessa's behest and silently dedicating each one to her sister; and finally watching that infuriating black-and-green specter disappear from her again.

That last thought propelled Glinda to her feet, as if she would march to the Vinkus that night, but fear of a distance more than miles slumped her against the table. She left the mug and teapot for the servants and retreated to her room. The snifter she had drunk from earlier was still on the nightstand, and she considered getting the brandy out again. Instead, Glinda crossed to the window, the pale smudge of her face growing large in the blackness of the glass. She struck a match against the windowsill and lit the candle there. Her fingertips pressed first against her lips, then against the windowpane, a thing without a soul that could not kiss her back.

Glinda sat on the edge of her bed, watching the green wax run in rivulets, and waited for the night to end.


End file.
